Momo Reindeer//D3// Fin
Jan 27, 2018 19:46:25 GMT -5
Post by Unitato15 on Jan 27, 2018 19:46:25 GMT -5
Name: Momo Reindeer
District: 3
Age:13
Fc: Megan Charpentier
The grey emptiness of the orphanage floods my being. No atmosphere and no family. No one and nothing. Just me. Sure, children and adults come and go, leaving their scents and words behind, but they will never be able to leave an impression. Not anymore.
My parents and sister are gone. My mother who'd sing sweet songs of a tomorrow she'd never get to see, she's gone. My father, full of so much pride for his offspring that he'd risk what he'd been spared to preserve even one. He's super gone. And McKenna, my sister. She's even more gone. Ripred, how I miss McKenna. She was the typical teenager. Always rolling her eyes and groaning."It's not a phase, mom!" and all that stuff. Maybe she was cringy but she was my sister. She was so talented and she could have done so much with it. She was always in her room, making up stories, painting portraits and singing songs. That was her downfall.
When our home caught fire that last day, she'd been sketching a portrait of a boy she had a crush on. Her door locked, as per usual. She had no way of knowing the heat would warp her doorknob so that it'd be impossible to unlock. When my father came home to a dwelling of drifting ash and glimmering flames that day, his only thought was to save us.
My ten year old self had been so overwhelmed with fear that I'd just collapsed to tears next to a blazing staircase. I was lucky that it too didn't collapse, onto me. My dad ran in, saw me on the ground and lifted me onto his back, like he used to do when we'd play superman. He ran, dodging flames and breathing heavily, his spine was bent in an attempt to keep us close to the ground.
When we finally escaped the place, he put me to the ground and asked me if I was alright. He... told me to wait there so he could go back in and save my mom and sister. His eyes... I'll never forget his eyes. They were the color of wet potting soil and the look he gave me in that moment was just as sustaining. I really thought he could do it.
As soon as he went back in I knew that I had been wrong. My sister's room was on the second floor of our home and faced the front. Her window had always revealed a good portion of her room to anyone approaching our house. She always used to obsess about how she'd appear in the eyes of our neighbors. Especially those she'd deemed cute. In that moment though, my sister was not primping and preening herself, drawing, singing, redecorating or painting. No. She was on fire. Her usually long , strawberry blonde hair appeared to be turning to ash before my eyes. The rest of her appeared as though morphing into a sizzling lump. She was still screaming.
As horrified as I was, my heart didn't truly drop until I saw that door fall down. I suppose my dad heard her screams and thought he could barrel through the door to save her. Maybe he thought he could be the type of hero we used to root for when we'd watch the games. The ones who'd try their hardest to bring their alliance to the finale. I don't know how he managed to avoid catching fire up to that point but as soon as he knocked down that door, the entire ceiling came down too. He was dead before I had time to process what had happened.
No one is sure exactly how or where my mother died. Or how the house even caught fire. I've heard a few kids around the orphanage say my mother was the one who set the fire. And maybe they're right. But, kids are shits and I'm alone so I've never seen a point in wondering if they're right.
Sometimes when the gray in the walls starts to remind me of the ash that settled in our lungs that day, I distract myself by pretending I've got the same mind my sister did. If she'd lived, she might have filled these walls with art and maybe hoped that one of the cuter orphans would hit on her. She would've been aged out of the reaping by now. She used to say that she had the best screensaver art ideas than anyone else and that she'd be so great at that people would invite her to the capital and give her money. She was weird.
I've never had a very active imagination or very high hopes for anything. Even before the fire I was considered the precocious but boring one. The one who was good at math but bad at friends. I suppose the fire hasn't helped. Most days I communicate with visitors to the orphanage by grunting or simply looking up at them with broken eyes. Always works. Sometimes, if I'm in a good mood, I'll growl a little. That super always works.
The only day I ever act like a person is the day of the reaping. As all of us orphans are paraded to the waiting ropes, and the parents in the crowd are quietly excited by how many orphans there are (more fodder not related to them to be slaughtered), I always allow myself to smile and wave at people. What better day to smile than the reaping? I look forward to the day I might be reaped. The day I could finally start preparing for death. The day I could get closer to finally seeing my parents and sister again.
I haven't looked in a mirror in a long time, but I imagine that I haven't changed much. My hair's always been a drab kind of blonde. I'd always thought of my sister's much more colorful variation as a manifestation of her personality. My eyes are a lizard green color, with rings of brown around the outsides. I might even look in the mirror if I didn't look so much like my mother. As much as I loved her, she'll never be as impactive to my mind as my father and sister, the ones who saved and scarred me.
One thing I have noticed about myself is that I haven't grown once in 3 years. I still look ten. I still feel ten. The orphanage workers tell me I'm stunted as a result of my trauma. I usually will respond to those comments with an eyebrow furrow and my special "leave if you'd like to keep your appendages" growl. The only growl I've ever done that worse than that one is the grown I let out when these idiots decided to rename me to MOMO. FRICKIN. REINDEER. The woman who renamed me pissed herself as a result.
Unfortunately though, the name stuck. The only reason I haven't forced a new one is that McKenna probably would've loved it. Sometimes, when I'm actually able to sleep, I see myself with McKenna in the afterlife. In the dream, when I tell her what I've been renamed, she laughs and I actually feel happy again. One day, that's what I'll actually be able to do. I can only hope it's one day soon.
District: 3
Age:13
Fc: Megan Charpentier
The grey emptiness of the orphanage floods my being. No atmosphere and no family. No one and nothing. Just me. Sure, children and adults come and go, leaving their scents and words behind, but they will never be able to leave an impression. Not anymore.
My parents and sister are gone. My mother who'd sing sweet songs of a tomorrow she'd never get to see, she's gone. My father, full of so much pride for his offspring that he'd risk what he'd been spared to preserve even one. He's super gone. And McKenna, my sister. She's even more gone. Ripred, how I miss McKenna. She was the typical teenager. Always rolling her eyes and groaning."It's not a phase, mom!" and all that stuff. Maybe she was cringy but she was my sister. She was so talented and she could have done so much with it. She was always in her room, making up stories, painting portraits and singing songs. That was her downfall.
When our home caught fire that last day, she'd been sketching a portrait of a boy she had a crush on. Her door locked, as per usual. She had no way of knowing the heat would warp her doorknob so that it'd be impossible to unlock. When my father came home to a dwelling of drifting ash and glimmering flames that day, his only thought was to save us.
My ten year old self had been so overwhelmed with fear that I'd just collapsed to tears next to a blazing staircase. I was lucky that it too didn't collapse, onto me. My dad ran in, saw me on the ground and lifted me onto his back, like he used to do when we'd play superman. He ran, dodging flames and breathing heavily, his spine was bent in an attempt to keep us close to the ground.
When we finally escaped the place, he put me to the ground and asked me if I was alright. He... told me to wait there so he could go back in and save my mom and sister. His eyes... I'll never forget his eyes. They were the color of wet potting soil and the look he gave me in that moment was just as sustaining. I really thought he could do it.
As soon as he went back in I knew that I had been wrong. My sister's room was on the second floor of our home and faced the front. Her window had always revealed a good portion of her room to anyone approaching our house. She always used to obsess about how she'd appear in the eyes of our neighbors. Especially those she'd deemed cute. In that moment though, my sister was not primping and preening herself, drawing, singing, redecorating or painting. No. She was on fire. Her usually long , strawberry blonde hair appeared to be turning to ash before my eyes. The rest of her appeared as though morphing into a sizzling lump. She was still screaming.
As horrified as I was, my heart didn't truly drop until I saw that door fall down. I suppose my dad heard her screams and thought he could barrel through the door to save her. Maybe he thought he could be the type of hero we used to root for when we'd watch the games. The ones who'd try their hardest to bring their alliance to the finale. I don't know how he managed to avoid catching fire up to that point but as soon as he knocked down that door, the entire ceiling came down too. He was dead before I had time to process what had happened.
No one is sure exactly how or where my mother died. Or how the house even caught fire. I've heard a few kids around the orphanage say my mother was the one who set the fire. And maybe they're right. But, kids are shits and I'm alone so I've never seen a point in wondering if they're right.
Sometimes when the gray in the walls starts to remind me of the ash that settled in our lungs that day, I distract myself by pretending I've got the same mind my sister did. If she'd lived, she might have filled these walls with art and maybe hoped that one of the cuter orphans would hit on her. She would've been aged out of the reaping by now. She used to say that she had the best screensaver art ideas than anyone else and that she'd be so great at that people would invite her to the capital and give her money. She was weird.
I've never had a very active imagination or very high hopes for anything. Even before the fire I was considered the precocious but boring one. The one who was good at math but bad at friends. I suppose the fire hasn't helped. Most days I communicate with visitors to the orphanage by grunting or simply looking up at them with broken eyes. Always works. Sometimes, if I'm in a good mood, I'll growl a little. That super always works.
The only day I ever act like a person is the day of the reaping. As all of us orphans are paraded to the waiting ropes, and the parents in the crowd are quietly excited by how many orphans there are (more fodder not related to them to be slaughtered), I always allow myself to smile and wave at people. What better day to smile than the reaping? I look forward to the day I might be reaped. The day I could finally start preparing for death. The day I could get closer to finally seeing my parents and sister again.
I haven't looked in a mirror in a long time, but I imagine that I haven't changed much. My hair's always been a drab kind of blonde. I'd always thought of my sister's much more colorful variation as a manifestation of her personality. My eyes are a lizard green color, with rings of brown around the outsides. I might even look in the mirror if I didn't look so much like my mother. As much as I loved her, she'll never be as impactive to my mind as my father and sister, the ones who saved and scarred me.
One thing I have noticed about myself is that I haven't grown once in 3 years. I still look ten. I still feel ten. The orphanage workers tell me I'm stunted as a result of my trauma. I usually will respond to those comments with an eyebrow furrow and my special "leave if you'd like to keep your appendages" growl. The only growl I've ever done that worse than that one is the grown I let out when these idiots decided to rename me to MOMO. FRICKIN. REINDEER. The woman who renamed me pissed herself as a result.
Unfortunately though, the name stuck. The only reason I haven't forced a new one is that McKenna probably would've loved it. Sometimes, when I'm actually able to sleep, I see myself with McKenna in the afterlife. In the dream, when I tell her what I've been renamed, she laughs and I actually feel happy again. One day, that's what I'll actually be able to do. I can only hope it's one day soon.
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